the sound of her was in the street

flayed to an ochre asphalt

dripped down from a generous bourbon

fermentation brings a night that doesn't hurt

the stench of cancer is in her vomit:

she knows she doesn't have long

until it's shit in the sheets

and a pain that can't be described

it hurts just to blink

and you can't even

slow it down

but before

before this time

that doesn't feel real

she was real

and a figure like Venus out of fresh dough

i heard her fingernails when they touched me

her eyes were planets

crevasses of green and blue

and it was better than flying

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